


Re-cognition

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Series: Re-cognition [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel & Vessel Interactions, Episode: s11e14 The Vessel, Episode: s11e15 Beyond the Mat, Gen, Philosophy, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel does not fight Lucifer. Or, not what Sam Winchester would think of as fighting him. He talks. He knows stories; and, reduced to a voice and a thought, he tries to write Lucifer a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 11x15; so, Lucifer is possessing Castiel and hunting for a Hand of God, the Winchesters have recently learned of it, and some of the dialogue in the first section refers directly to events of that episode. Written before the airing of 11x16.

 

  


“She hates you, bee tee dubs,” Lucifer stage-whispered, and pulled Jimmy’s face into an exaggerated pout of regret.

“I really do,” said Simmons; and Castiel thought, with regret, _you are about to die_.

It was no clairvoyance, no prophecy, no angelic or divine foretelling: it was a simple recognition of the story.

Crowley always planned three or ten moves ahead. Often his plans miscarried, though he postured all the same. Often they didn’t. Either way, people died—the people that Crowley did not think were people.

“... Maybe you were the evillest evil that ever evilled,” came Lucifer’s voice, winding sinuous and sweet through the air, and not nearly so persuasive as Castiel remembered; “present company excluded.”

He said it as if it was clever. To Castiel, it only sounded clumsy.

Lucifer recognised allusions that Castiel did not. Castiel had the entire dictionary of human story-telling in his head, but dictionaries hold definitions, not meaning. He recognised the origin of the Vulcan salute that Charlie had offered him once, but not why, by the very act of reference, it meant something fonder and dearer to her than its literal significance.

He did not understand why Lucifer said _bee tee dubs_ as if it meant something different to _by the way_.

“Dean Winchester’s number one fan,” Lucifer said. His sneer was directed outward, and inward.

He lightened Castiel’s voice into a jeer; but from inside, it sounded heavy as time.

Lucifer wasn’t laughing. Lucifer was tired, and aching too deeply to be cynical.

This time, Crowley’s plans did not miscarry.

Castiel regretted Simmons’ death. He did not regret Crowley’s life. Crowley was unpredictable enough to be predictable—and useful.

 

***

 

 _Hey, Cas_.

Sam’s prayers were always strong and diffident at once.

_Don’t know if you can hear me, but I guess it can’t hurt. Jody texted me. She said she thinks Claire’s worried about you. Or angry at you. It’s kind of hard to tell, at that age._

_Not to make you feel guilty or anything, just. I thought you should know. There’s more than just me and Dean wanting you back. There’s people who’d miss you._

_Not like a whole garrison of angels, I guess; but, you know. People_ choose _people. I think that makes a difference_.

_I know you’re still there. Just... keep fighting, yeah?_

Castiel had no intention of doing anything else.

 

_***_

 

“The slingshot of David,” Lucifer purred, and wrinkled his nose. The flames of the torches flickered over his face. “I don’t know, I see myself more as a Goliath figure, don’t you?”

The demons looked at each other, and didn’t reply. Lucifer picked up the ancient twist of wood; sighed, and put it back down. “Shot its load already. Guys, guys, I need you to work with me here. I want something I can actually _use_. This? This is as useful as a dried-out whore. Capisce?”

 _That’s disgusting_ , said Castiel.

 _Oh, the little birdie’s awake? I_ am _the devil_ , _you know_. _First name D, second name Evil._

 _I... don’t believe that is the correct etymology_.

Lucifer paused, and Castiel felt the weight of his curiosity. Then he stretched his wings (and how Castiel had missed that feeling!) and slid without effort through walls and clouds and atoms to a cool forest somewhere in northern Europe.

“What a peculiar thing you are,” he said, and he said it mockingly.

_Yes. You said that once before. But you said it differently then. There is no need to be... petty, and gross._

“I could hear the prayers, Castiel. I could slip into the minds that wanted me. In the dreams of the most virtuous souls, now and then; into the waking thoughts of some who weren’t.”

_Yes. I know._

“Oh, _honey_ ,” exclaimed Lucifer, rich with scorn, “I have watched every village and heard every song in every land since their fungus began to creep across the earth. I know every story ever told about me. I know exactly what the Devil is.”

 _Better the devil you know_ , Castiel thought. Quotations and cliches turned up in his head unbidden, these days. But Castiel did not know this devil—this smirking, dancing bully. Here was not the vast, brilliant archangel that he had been before the fall, nor even the Adversary of the months of the Apocalypse—quiet, dignified, righteous, blazing with silver certainty.

“Did you ever hear any medieval fabliaux?” exclaimed Lucifer to the skies, turning on his heel with his arms flung wide as if appealing to the vastness of creation around him. “I am a very popular character in those. Usually some clever peasant tricks me into cutting off my own balls, or drinking his piss, or something like that; but in some of them, I’m the hero. There’s one—how did it go, now? God creates man. God takes his rib and creates woman, who, because she is made of bone, requires regular beatings—but he forgets to give her a cunt. I look her over and find only one hole. I go back to God and explain to him his error—what good is a woman without a furrow to plough? He is drunk and resting, and bids me go back to her and do it myself. I pick up my tools—mattock, spade, pickaxe, reaping hook—examine them, and decide the spade will do the job best—after all, every man will thank me for making the hole large. I jam it in to the hilt, wiggle it around a bit, make her good and open. Oh yes—then I sit down in front of her and fart into her mouth. And that is why the devil is in women’s cunts, and the breath of the devil’s arse is in a woman’s incessant chatter.”

_You’d let them tell you what to become?_

“I am giving them what they asked for, brother.”

Castiel coiled his fingers around the tin-grey thread of Lucifer’s resentment, and wound it gently towards himself.

_This is not you. I remember you, Lucifer. I know what you are._

“You knew what I was—a tiny, seraph-sized glimpse of it.”

 _What are you now?_ Castiel wondered. He didn’t say it, but it was possible Lucifer that heard the thought anyway.

The evillest evil that ever evilled. Everybody knew what the devil was.

Lucifer had been listening for thousands of years. He had very rarely been listened to.

 

***

 

 _Castiel, who aren’t in Heaven. This cheeseburger tastes like arse. I’d tell you to come home and I’d make awesome burgers for all of us, but oh wait, the place is inked up in angel warding again because some dipshit went and invited the devil on board_.

 _... Fuck_.

_Cas, man. You gotta come back, okay? You gotta kick him out. It isn’t worth it. You—I mean, even if he does beat down the Darkness, then we’re just right back where we were five years ago, right? Bad call, man. I just—fuck._

_I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. Whatever I did that made you—I didn’t mean it. I’m a dick, Cas, you know that. Just come back. Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And yes, that is a real fabliau, and definitely not among the worst of them. I'm sorry. In defence of the Middle Ages, fabliaux are exactly that inappropriate and horrible and 'funny' at everybody's expense, as a genre, not just about women; and also, let's face it, that level of misogyny as a pub joke amongst mates is not exactly unique to the Middle Ages. Don't start with the 'my god they were backwards then'.)


	2. Chapter 2

_It isn’t their fault_ , said Castiel, as the demons cowered, and Lucifer glared at the spot where Miriam’s timbrel should have lain.

“Why are you so patient?” Lucifer complained to the air.

_You have more patience than I do, brother. You simply choose not to use it._

“You don’t fight me,” Lucifer said, turning slowly and smilingly towards one demon, with obvious intent. “You only... speak.”

Castiel sighed inwardly. _Please don’t_. _We might perhaps have more success if you were to investigate known relics, hoarded by various churches since—_

Lucifer tore the demon to pieces.

“Hm,” said Lucifer, and twisted his face into one of the strange, extravagant expressions that he hadn’t bothered with last time Castiel had known him, when he’d had a purpose. He picked up the faded velvet cloth that had once wrapped the timbrel. It fell to dust through his bloody fingers, and he reached out, to wipe them clean in the dark curls of the demon nearest to him.

“Scram,” he said to them sweetly; and they fled.

Lucifer turned around and around in the abandoned vaults, crowded with strange and antique junk. He hummed to himself, a playful haunting tune, and waltzed in and out between the stone arches, in and out, in and out. There was no light down here—none of them needed it—but the dust curled up into the air around him and danced in slow, whirling counterpoint.

“Castiel,” he said in a coaxing sing-song, “Caaaaastiel. Come out and speak to me, little brother. You know something about this place, and you will tell me.”

 _Not for certain, Lucifer_.

“Somebody was here, weren’t they, Castiel? I can taste angel lingering in the air. No more than ten years ago, maybe less. Tell me who, little brother.”

The voice was silk-soft and cold as an iron blade.

Castiel had pondered the nature of insanity, in Purgatory. He had decided that it was subjective: some given degree of deviation from whatever one determined as “normal”. Now he wondered if it might not be the complete absence of concern for anybody at all, even for oneself and one’s principles—or if, at least, such a state might not produce an effect indistinguishable from insanity.

Last time, Lucifer had had a purpose. And a shape. A story.

 _Balthazar_ , he said, giving the name up as if reluctantly. _I think it was Balthazar. And he may well have taken the slingshot as well, and put a fake in its place. After all, any leads that you or I can follow he could have followed too; and he had more experience of the world than either of us._

“Balthazar,” said Lucifer, puzzled, as if trying to trace down insignificant memories. “And where is he?”

_Dead, Lucifer._

Castiel let Lucifer feel the truth of it, and his own regret. He offered nothing more, pinned under the burning weight of Lucifer’s full attention; and finally he was rewarded by an impatient huff, and Lucifer draped their body extravagantly over a carved wooden throne from twelfth-century Normandy, and brushed a little gore from Castiel’s shirt front.

“Don’t make me drag it out of you, little bird,” he said in bored tones to the broken arches overhead. “Tell me how that insignificant brat managed to cross me years in advance, do. I’m sure his doings will _thrill_ me.”

And so Castiel did.

He told of the power vacuum left after the fall of Michael and Lucifer; of Raphael’s attempt to fill the gap, without Michael’s stern but canny leadership skills, or any sense of purpose beyond bringing about in a way not foretold that which had been thwarted already; of the division in Heaven and Castiel’s own reluctant rise to lead a rival faction. He told of all those angels who, during that time or in the years before it, had quietly slipped away—to Earth, or elsewhere—to hide themselves and find something other than Heaven and Heaven’s ways. He told the tales of those he knew: those who had quietly worked against the Apocalypse in their own way wherever they were, learning to value the world around them or love some small part of it, and those who had worked to bring it about in the hope of seeing their final Heavenly kingdom, and those who—like Balthazar—had done neither, had merely existed in despair or frivolity, waiting for the end.

He told, as the sun crept unseen across the sky beyond the stones of the abandoned church and the damp of the stones crept into their flesh, of Balthazar’s canny stockpile of weapons and power. He told, too, of his own hopes and despair, of being backed into a corner time and again and scrabbling by any means to save his companions and keep the world alive. He spoke here and there, in brief flashes, of the world _he_ knew and had fought for—deep, feeling moments of love for the earth their Father had created and the strange beauties of humanity. At the first, Lucifer’s feelings stirred with him—at the second, they recoiled—but Lucifer was still listening, and the longer Castiel talked, the more Lucifer felt _with_ him the moments and emotions he drew forth.

He had never told this story to anybody. He had never needed to: though he had wished, sometimes, to tell Sam and Dean _his_ story of that time, they had known the main events. Telling them any more would have felt like making excuses, and their scorn and anger was no worse than Castiel deserved. It hurt to speak of it, to turn it into a story. It burned at his mind and sickened him in a strange phantom of the nausea he had felt in his human body sometimes, when he had had control of it; but there was a strange gratification in it as well, even to tell it all to such a creature as Lucifer. Perhaps especially: to imagine himself submitting and confessing to the judgement of an archangel, that they might scourge him clean.

But he was not telling this story for himself. This was not self-indulgence.

He told of meeting Balthazar, of using the power Balthazar gave him, of all the machinations and chances of that time, and his own growing certainty of the only way to finally defeat Raphael. He told of his frustration at all those around him, angel and human, who had advised him against it, who could not simply _see_ why this plan was their only chance. Then he spoke of agreeing with them, of knowing that it would damage him and change him, of accepting that danger to himself as the price that must be paid, but never once (so desperate and egotistical had he grown, so far had he changed already) doubting that he would be able to do what was needful before he burned out.

And he told of the consequences. He told of killing Balthazar, and of... everything else.

He told, in short, of the results of arrogance and loneliness, and of the damage it brought to everything loved and beautiful; and at last he opened his feelings to Lucifer and let him feel the vicious rush of self-hatred and regret: the aching, aching wish that he could rewrite that story and end it another way.

They hung together in the darkness, grace entwined in a tangle of silver threads and, just for this time, still.

At last Lucifer broke the quiet; but he did not speak aloud.

_Why did you say yes to me, Castiel?_

_Because I am expendable._

_No_ , said Lucifer, and rippled against him where he was raw, like fingers running carefully over a curve of skin. _That’s not it_.

Castiel was silent; and Lucifer said, persuasive, almost gentle, _You see the kinship between us_.

 _You mentioned it once before_.

 _And I still see it_ , Lucifer replied. _I will not burn you out, little bird. I will ride you gently. I will not let you make the same mistakes again._

It was a curious promise, but Castiel thought, perhaps, that it was as much generosity as Lucifer was capable of.

 _Thank you_ , he said, rather awkwardly; and Lucifer laughed aloud.

“You know,” he said, with a return to his light, patronising tones, “you are a tactician, little brother, but not a strategist. All your errors came from looking outside yourself for guidance, instead of seeing the future clearly. You ought to have seen earlier what it was that you needed to do and pursued _that_ end, whatever got in your way. You turn aside too often for trifles and soft-heartedness.”

It was the opposite moral to what Castiel would have drawn; and surely, if any angel had allowed himself to be defined by others, it was Lucifer. He had not changed Lucifer’s mind; but he had touched him. And he had given him... a sort of parable. Something to be interested in. He might continue to think on it. It might continue to work on him, even if Castiel did not survive this possession.

 _If I had been able to do that,_ he replied, _I would not have recognised myself anymore._

 

***

 

_Cas. Caaaaas. I’m drunk and I can’t go and see the new Star Wars movie because I gotta wait for you, man, I can’t go see it without you, I gotta watch all the stupid scrunched-up faces you make when you get all confused about why people are doing what they’re doing and the way you always start getting all grouchy and demanding to know what the fuck’s going on when it’s meant to be a freakin’ mystery and..._

_... and Han Solo is still dicking around being awesome and there’s a badarse pilot in it and he’s totally hot and I_ think _there’s a guy who was brainwashed into being a storm trooper but the pilot dragged him out of it and now they’re running around the galaxy being awesome together and... and a chick who can fight with a quarterstaff and can use the Force and. Uh. I mean awesome, not hot. The pilot. Or, you know. Chicks would think he was hot. Or guys who are into that. I guess. And Leia’s all grown up and beautiful and sad, and..._

 _Just. You’d dig it, man. You gotta come back, okay? ‘Cos Sam’s getting impatient and is threatening to go see it alone, and that’s not cool because we_ always _go to see movies together. Except that time I was in Hell. Which was no excuse. So. So. That means being possessed by the freakin’ devil is no excuse, okay? Just kick him out and. And we’ll go to the movies this weekend. Promise to get you caramel popcorn. Even though it’s a freakin’ abomination, you dumbarse._

 

***

 

 _Castiel_.

It was Claire’s voice.

It didn’t produce the same warm, familiar ache that Dean’s did; but it was unusual enough to make him start, and listen. His reaction was too obvious: Lucifer noticed, and then Lucifer listened too.

_I know you’re listening, you dick. That’s the deal, isn’t it? You got to use me and leave me this hollow freak and in exchange you always hear me. If you aren’t doing anything more important. Whatever._

_I guess if you don’t think it’s worth turning up when I tell you I’ve found an honest-to-whatever werewolf in town you wouldn’t bother when I tell you the mailman’s possessed by a demon. Even if I saw his eyes turn black when he touched the mailbox lid to put our post in, because I painted a devil’s trap inside it yesterday._

_I guess Sam and Dean told you I’m just making shit up. Since you probably listen to_ them _when they call. Because you’re not, you know, riding their dad or anything._

_Whatever. Drop by or not. I don’t care._

“Interesting,” said the devil.

 _Don’t_ , begged Castiel.

Lucifer did.


	3. Chapter 3

Lucifer apologised, in his most earnest _Castiel_ voice. He apologised for letting Claire down. He apologised for his unreliable conduct. He looked at her with such a puppyish look, so sad and eager to do anything for a pat, that Castiel was almost ashamed of himself. Almost.

Claire and “Castiel” hunted down the demon mailman together.

Lucifer cast out the demon and left the host gasping on the floor. He wrapped his hand around the twisting black smoke before it fled and growled, “No more. This town is under off limits. You and all your kind will stay away. Do you understand?”

Claire looked at him like a hero, and Castiel ached.

“Claire,” said Lucifer afterward, awkward over burgers and coffee. “I have—something important to tell you.”

 _What are you doing,_ snapped Castiel.

“Your father is still alive.”

“But you said—” The hope flared in her eyes, then the horror.

“He is very weak. I thought he was gone. And I have been so weak myself that I could not sense him.”

“You mean he’s been there all the time? Everything you’ve seen—done?”

 _No_ , said Castiel sternly. _No, Lucifer_.

Lucifer ignored him.

Castiel listened with mounting dread as Lucifer talked on, deep and sincere. He spoke of how “her father” was trapped within him; that he could not now divide himself from this vessel, but that it wasn’t fair to “her father” to be bound to it at the same time; how greatly he had come to esteem and value “her father” and how he longed to separate them into two bodies so that they might do great things together. And this—this _was_ a Lucifer that Castiel knew, the gentle persuasive certainty and utter unscrupulousness of the Apocalypse. Where had it come from, all of a sudden?

“Can you,” said Claire, and swallowed. “You can move him—you can move a human soul into another body?”

_Lucifer. Stop. This is cruelty._

Lucifer held her eyes, and nodded. “I can move your father, if the other person is an appropriate vessel.”

“I...” She looked down at her hot chocolate. Revulsion, and hope.

_She is empty and aching, Castiel. And I would have you by my side, not crushed inside me._

Was that it? Simply that Lucifer had given himself a goal, however small? Or that he no longer believed himself to be alone?

“Claire.” Lucifer reached out, and put his hand over hers. “Dear girl. I don’t ask. I only thought—you should know. This is your choice.”

“Is he... okay?”

 _I will_ not _possess Claire._

“No. But I think he could be.”

“Then _yes_ , Castiel. Yes.”

“Claire,” Castiel burst out, “Claire. Don’t listen to him. He isn’t—”

“... Dad?”

Lucifer laughed, and sat back in his chair. Claire was on her feet.

“‘Dad.’ That’s exactly what he is to you, isn’t it? You fight against him, child, you crave his approval.” He rose lazily, and advanced on her. “You do your best not to show how much you long to curl up in his arms and cry yourself to sleep. And he lets you down, every time. It’s uncanny.”

“You’re not Castiel,” said Claire, wiped blank with fear. Then her face went hard. “You’re _not Castiel_.”

She punched Lucifer in the throat.

“Who are you?” she spat.

“Lucifer,” he said, and tapped a finger under her chin. “Are you afraid, little cub?”

She was. But fear always made her angry.

“You’re an angel,” she whispered, clutching at the switchblade in her pocket. Her eyes blazed. “You needed permission.”

Lucifer smiled, and clicked his fingers. The rest of the diner froze around them. He picked her up easily by the throat, and pinned her to the wall.

 _No,_ Castiel snarled, as her eyes went wide and her hands scrabbled at Lucifer’s adamantine flesh. He flung himself against Lucifer, a bird beating its fragile wings against a vast seawall. Last time, when it had been Sam that Lucifer was hurting, Castiel had taken Lucifer by surprise. Lucifer had him sealed down now: it would not work again.

Fighting him from the outside—Castiel could not win that way.

Lucifer had clung to his vast stories: God’s most beloved son, the world’s enemy, Michael’s Adversary and the bringer of the end. Lucifer had never been _Lucifer’s_. That absolute rigidity of“what I am” had always come from outside.

Castiel knew something about that: Lucifer had been right.

He had to make Lucifer another story. One where he was neither lone hero, nor lone villain.

He opened himself to Lucifer, pleading not with words but with every feeling he had, the desperation and the anger and the frustration and the bewilderment and the guilt, everything he had ever felt when looking into that face held in front of them. And most of all he let him feel the love, calling out to vast sealed wells inside the archangel. But this wasn’t the love of an obedient and abandoned child or a betrayed brother, not anymore.

 _If you call me her father_ , said Castiel _, I love her, Lucifer. And I do everything I can to make it right._

Lucifer dropped Claire as if she burned him. She gasped on her hands and knees, glaring daggers, clutching at her throat; but before she could move Lucifer spread his wings, and they were gone.

He shut Castiel down entirely—pushed him so deep inside that he couldn’t even access the body’s senses—and wouldn’t speak to him for hours.

Fathers, and children. There were patterns in the world. But recognition is not understanding.

 

***

 

Lucifer could not deprive Castiel of his own senses. He could still hear Claire, and her voice was white-hot: not the pleading resentment of the teenager anymore, but the anger of the woman.

_How dare you, Castiel._

_Dad sacrificed himself—sacrificed all of us—because he thought he was going into the fucking light. Fighting God’s war. Becoming an “angel”. And you go ahead and fill him up with the Devil?_ The _Devil?_

_No. No, you know what, that’s not even—he’s right, you know. The Devil. Lucifer._

_You’re as good as my dad now. You’re all I’ve got left, and you go and put something even bigger and brighter behind my dad’s eyes, like it’s just some old coat you can pass around to your friends? I lose my dad again and it’s still your fault. You don’t get to do that to me. Not again._

_You have no right. You don’t get to screw over your family like Dad did. You promised me, Castiel._

Castiel’s family?

Castiel had very few ties left with his family. And after all, he had chosen this route precisely so that he could take all of the harm of it onto himself. And if he hadn’t been so careless as to let Lucifer catch Claire’s scent, she would never have been hurt.

But Castiel had the uneasy feeling that it was not that kind of hurt that Claire had meant. It was the ugly shaky feeling of _We can fix this, Cas_ ; but this time he couldn’t say, _Dean, it’s not broken._

This time he could only think, _But I have to try_ , and know that Claire couldn’t hear him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mild spoilers for _Star Wars: The Force Awakens_. Also brief gore.

“The hammer that drove in the nails,” Lucifer mused. “That might, perhaps...”

 _Yes,_ said Castiel. _In fact, any of the objects used to wound Christ in his passion might be a candidate. Arma Christi, you see. Weapons of Christ. A double meaning: weapons that injured him and thereby supposedly became the means of his power._

Lucifer glanced between three of the ten computer monitors around him, each displaying a different website. “How many foreskins can one child have?”

 _I believe that at least fifty churches and individuals have at various times claimed to hold his foreskin, usually simultaneous to most of the others,_ said Castiel, _and that one theory holds that when he ascended bodily into Heaven the foreskin ascended separately and is now the rings of Saturn. John the Baptist has at least eight heads to his name._ _You will note, too, that there are enough fragments of the True Cross to construct a sizeable grove, if not a small forest._

Rather to his surprise, Lucifer chuckled.

“Thousands of things named ‘relics’,” he said, “perhaps dozens that are actually what they claim to be. And of those, how many Hands?”

_I find that the problem with the Internet is the superfluity of information, rather than its opposite. I suppose the same is true of objects of veneration._

“But most of them don't _believe_. They never did, not even in the ages of veneration. They just... think that’s the way the world works, and do as they’re told.”

_They believe in stories. It isn't faith but it is... shape. They build their lives around stories._

“Why?” asked Lucifer, and he seemed genuinely puzzled.

 _Stories make patterns in the world. Recognition. They let people think they understand it,_ said Castiel gently, and reached out Lucifer’s hand to click back to a more promising website. _I think sometimes they mistake recognition for understanding._

 

***

 

_Cas, please._

Sam’s voice was broken in pain.

_It’s Dean. Save Dean. Lucifer—Dean’s your best chance at getting to Amara, right? Don’t let him die. Please._

They were there at once, and Castiel didn’t know which of them had spread the archangel’s wings.

They snarled, and tore apart the wendigos with one hand and one thought. Then they were on their knees over Dean, who was gasping for breath, trying to hold in his guts where vast claws had gashed open his belly.

They gripped Dean’s left shoulder and cupped his face in their palm, and sent the fierce white fire of healing and love through Dean’s mangled body, as his eyes fixed desperately on their face, and his emotions bled into their grace.

It was only after it was done that Castiel felt the cold shudders of fear; and Lucifer did not fight him when he bent his forehead and pressed it against Dean’s, and breathed.

Lucifer was strangely quiet, in fact; until Sam cleared his throat and said, cautious with hope, “... Lucifer?”

They pulled back and met Dean’s eyes.

Dean looked at their hand on his shoulder. Then he looked at them with dozens of contradictory words behind his eyes. Recognising.

“Cas?”

Lucifer stirred. “For you, handsome,” he purred, “I could be.”

Dean snorted, and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Whatever. Get off me.”

Lucifer rose, more fluid and graceful in this body than Castiel had ever been, and turned.

The one human Lucifer had ever loved leaned heavily against the cave wall, leg bleeding badly, eyes bright and full. The feelings that flooded them were Castiel’s and Lucifer’s at once, and they were messy, and very deep.

“Thank you,” Sam gasped, and sagged to the floor.

Dean rushed to him, of course: Castiel knew it even though Lucifer chose that moment to flee.

He went and slaughtered three nests of vampires in various parts of Spain and Africa, without pausing to brush the blood off in between. Lucifer’s scorn for monsters of all kinds was much simpler and cleaner than his envious hatred for humanity. Against monsters, he could be purely the warrior.

 _Thank you_ , Castiel said, when Lucifer had recovered his breath and sarcasm.

It was only afterwards that he realised Lucifer had let slide the perfect opportunity to pressure Sam into consent, and divide himself from Castiel. He wondered whether it had occurred to Lucifer.

 

***

 

Lucifer touched the shroud of Turin curiously. “No power here,” he said; but there was hardly any disappointment in it. He traced the faint features of the face marked there.

 _Was it him_? Castiel wondered.

 _One human looks much like another_ , Lucifer commented, scornful from habit. _I feel the veneration laid on it, though. Years of humans believing in it. How odd, that they should change something like that. I think some of them believed in it more than in Father._

_If it was him, would you call that the face of Jesus of Nazareth, or of Michael?_

“I only had a ringside seat to the Harrowing, seraph,” Lucifer drawled. “You were in the ring.”

 _I barely looked at Michael’s vessel_ , Castiel confessed. _I saw only our general. I regret that now. I think he must have been a remarkable man._

“Curious,” Lucifer drawled, “because I barely recognised my self-righteous brother. The human changed him.”

 _Perhaps he did,_ Castiel considered, thinking back over those decades. He had rarely been close to Michael, after all. _But I think losing you changed him more_.

He expected Lucifer’s flinch. He half expected rebuke, even retaliation, and the cold icy wall of Lucifer’s displeasure. But the tide of Lucifer’s feelings, which now mingled so easily with his own, rather flowed toward Castiel than away; and Castiel answered the touch like fingers tangling through fingers.

“What do they want from our Father?”

Castiel hesitated. There was pain in it, and old anger, but not rage. It was a real question.

 _I think_ , he said carefully, _the same thing that we do. In the end._

_And what is that, little bird?_

_To know that somebody cares._ Castiel slipped one hand into the pocket of their slacks, to touch the FBI badge that he kept there. _And without him, they look to each other._

 

***

 

 _You could have stayed long enough to mojo Sammy’s leg,_ Dean grumbled.

 

***

 

Lucifer stood outside the door of the bunker, and rang the bell.

Dean opened it.

He leaned just inside the threshold, and crossed his arms, and glared his unimpressed glare.

Lucifer sighed, and stared at the rock above his head.

“Castiel informs me,” he said, “that it is necessary that we go to the movies and see _Star War_.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “ _Star Wars_.”

Their forehead wrinkled. “There’s more than one of them?”

“Don’t start that,” Dean growled. “What’s this about?”

“Castiel thinks,” said Lucifer delicately, “that I would... _enjoy_ it.”

Dean glared at them for a minute. Castiel silently _willed_ him not to knock Lucifer back, because this was a tenuous wavering thing, and it had been difficult enough to persuade Lucifer to come at all.

“Fine,” he said. “But no fanboying over evil emperors, y’hear? And no funny business with Sam. And you’re paying. And—and Castiel gets the driver’s seat.”

 

***

 

Dean honestly tried to give Lucifer (or Castiel) the silent, sulky treatment. But there was no containing his enthusiasm, or Sam’s, once they were actually in the cinema. Lucifer took some delight in the irritation of the other patrons, until Castiel finally persuaded him to create a sound-proof bubble around them, and then the Winchesters could enthuse to their hearts’ content.

When Rey insulted the Millennium Falcon, Dean made a noise of delighted indignation.

“Dude,” he burst out, clutching at Castiel’s arm. “She is _so_ Luke’s daughter.”

This—the importance of the vehicle, the delight that Dean had in this moment of recognition—was a significance that Castiel understood, and Lucifer did not.

“Yes,” he said; “but if she is, that only tells you where she has come from. It does not tell you what she is, or what she will become.”

 

***

 

Lucifer was highly indignant at Kylo Ren. In fact, he seemed to like Finn best.

Castiel had high hopes for him.

**Author's Note:**

> [On tumblr over here.](http://whitmerule.tumblr.com/post/140492588995/re-cognition-13)


End file.
